


No rest for the dead

by kaygoesmoo



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlin Needs a Break, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Delusions, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, M/M, Martin is a fucked up human being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaygoesmoo/pseuds/kaygoesmoo
Summary: Berlin is sitting right where he left him — on the sofa, leaning his head against the wall. He is still. Resting or lost in thought so deeply that his gaze is unfocused. Reciting 18th-century poetry in his mind? Going over their plan? Coming up with new painting ideas?He was starting to smell.Martin shuddered at the thought.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	No rest for the dead

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS

Palermo was making his way downstairs to one of the supply closets he turned into a small living space — with a sofa from one of the break rooms and a couple of chairs. Nowadays, he tried to spend as much time as possible there — which meant on all of his short breaks from watching over the hostages, working in the forge as well as his longer breaks meant for a few hours of undisturbed sleep, he would go to the nearest staircase and go down exactly one flight of stairs to get to the “personnel–only” floor with considerably less amount of decorations, lighting and almost no surveillance (the only way to truly hide from Sergio). It was chilly, lonely, and even creepy going through endless corridors that were writhing just under the Bank of Spain. Listening to his heavy steps echoing in the corridors, listening to the sound of water flowing through piping in the walls. Spooky.

They had no use for this floor. It was mostly empty sans a couple of breakrooms, supply closets, and toilets. When they attacked the bank the only person who was evacuated from the underground floor was a middle-aged cleaning lady, Lyudmila, with a severe case of back pain thus she wasn’t involved in manual work and was spending most of her time sitting in one place in the Bank’s lobby.

***

Berlin is sitting right where he left him — on the sofa, leaning his head against the wall. He is still. Resting or lost in thought so deeply that his gaze is unfocused. Reciting 18th-century poetry in his mind? Going over their plan? Coming up with new painting ideas?

Right, painting. Is it hard to paint with only one eye?

"Hey, Andres! I hope you didn’t get too bored sitting here. I have brought you something. But first, let’s eat, I am starving".

He moves to the other corner of the small room where, a few breaks back, he had brought several instant noodles packs as well as a couple of water bottles. There is also a water cooler in a breakroom a couple of doors left from the supply closet so he goes there with the noodle plastic cup, fills it with boiling water, and then goes back to Berlin to sit with him while noodles are preparing. 

He sits on the chair in front of Andres and leans into his personal space. Berlin rarely talks now, rarely moves even but Palermo is sure that all this is due to the head trauma he suffered. Berlin got shaken up quite badly both physically and mentally now that he has only one eye. So Palermo has to help him — he adjusts the bloodied head gauze first — he cannot get cleaner ones now that Tokyo is the leader of the heist. That bitch got all the medical supplies locked and the key was always with her — no matter how good Martin was at picking locks he couldn’t just steal new gauzes — the team would end up getting suspicious and may even discover their small hiding space. The rags in the supply closet didn’t satisfy him either — the amount of microbes probably on there is too high for comfort so he doesn’t even dare to think of covering the injury with them

He tilts Andres’ head up so that his neck is bent at a very unnatural angle and carefully presses his thumb to the left socket to push the eye back into position. Then the timer he set on his watch for 5 minutes cheerfully dings and he hastily presses almost every button on the metal case to turn the alarm off.

"Sorry, Andres, I didn’t mean to startle you". 

Andres never ate anymore and that was probably due to him still coming to terms with his severe eye trauma. He was starting to smell though.

Martin shuddered at the thought. 

When Andres got shot he was protecting Nairobi — he easily saw through the tactics Alicia used but didn’t predict getting shot through the window. The blue bear fell on the floor. The bullet lodged itself deeply in Andres’ skull making him quickly lose consciousness. Martin remembers screaming at everyone to get help but receiving only looks of mocking pity in return. He remembers pushing everyone away, not even caring when Tokyo assumed the leader position and went to inform Sergio of the accident. He remembers holding forceps in his trembling fingers, vision blurring from all the tears trying to pull the bullet out. He remembers wrapping his head in a bandage, the white gauze quickly absorbing blood.

"It’s alright Andres, everything will be alright". 

Then Tokyo, Denver, and Helsinki came back, trying to pull him away from Berlin’s body, Tokyo saying something about Berlin being dead. But that just couldn’t be, right? Then Helsinki came closer with his big hands holding his face, thumbs wiping the tears, looking at him sternly. 

"Palermo, Berlin is dead. We should take him downstairs and find something to put him in".

And then, through all the panic, desperation, and hysteria he came up with a clear idea. Best idea he probably had since he came up with this heist. Deception.

So he agreed to help Helsinki carry Berlin downstairs. The nasty ugly box they found was no match for all the elegance, all mannerisms, all sheen Berlin possessed. Disgusting. And then he asked Helsinki to give him a moment with his ‘lost’ lover and, oh God, the Serbian was such a naïve, trusting man. Martin carried Andres to one of the supply closets on the floor, put a couple of dozens of sandbags brought for the warfare in the primitive coffin, and hammered in nails to hold the top in place. When Helsinki came back they carried the coffin in the lobby, and Nairobi painted Andres’ real name, alias, and two dates on the sides of the box. 

All the while Martin was thinking that they were on the one page — a great idea for deception and throwing police off the track. He was sure this was all Sergio’s plan to save his older brother since after the first heist he became the ‘most wanted’ in their little band of misfits. But then. Then he understood. It was all Tokyo’s plan. She lied to Sergio, lied to everyone that Berlin was dead so that she could assume his position. Cruel but Martin was sure that was he in her place he would do the same. He, however, wasn’t and didn’t care about the heist anymore. Andres was hurt and he needed to protect him at all costs. 

When the ‘funeral’ ended he quickly disappeared to the supply closet, brought in the sofa, the scrape of the wooden legs against the tiles too loud for his ears which were still ringing. He deposited Andres on the sofa, checked his injury — he had lost consciousness but didn’t close his eyes. Well, eye. Weird, but it could sometimes happen, right?

From then on, he would come to check on him as much as he could while still staying discrete. Denver, being the insensitive idiot that he is, wondered why he wasn’t sad over Berlin’s passing. Palermo only laughed in return. Berlin wasn’t dead! 

He got distracted by his thoughts when he felt something wet against his hand. Tears he guessed. When he rubbed his eyes with one of his hands, however, he didn’t feel any wetness there. 

Oh, it was Andres. Turns out Martin was clutching his hand so tightly that some of the skin broke off, sticking to Palermo’s hand, and the fluid started leaking out. That also happened now but Martin was no doctor so he ignored it. At least his head wound was looking fine, not infected. 

"Andres, that’s so disgusting!", he exclaimed peeling off one of the skin chunks sticking to his palm. "No, no, don’t worry it is alright I will just wipe my hand". Several napkins that were wrapped around his spork before he started eating made for a wonderful skin remover. "See?", he shows him the clean hand. "Everything is good now, corazoñ". 

The napkin is flying in the trash and he stands up moving to one of the shelves where he left his gift for Andres when he entered. 

"Look, mi amore, I brought something for you. Stole this right from the governor’s office". He is holding out a couple of white sheets of paper, several black pens, pencils, and a stationary knife to sharpen the leads. "I hope our flipper won’t get mad that we stole the gold and his 300 euro Parker pen, huh?" He laughs finally breaking the tense atmosphere in the room. 

He puts all the supplies on the sofa’s hand rest — it is flat and wide enough to hold all the stationary without it flying to the floor and scattering everywhere. They sit in silence for a while until Martin starts feeling incredibly hot. 

The ventilation on this floor is nearly nonexistent, the vents are located in every room but those do not deliver any fresh air. The vent in their supply closet is right atop the huge metal rack in the back of the room its’ shelves filled with cleaning supplies: bleach, rags, sponges, and such. The fresh air is extremely scarce thus it usually gets hard to breathe after a couple of hours and Martin spent all day working in the forge helping melt the gold so he is still extremely sweaty in all the embarrassing places. 

He was never worried about his appearance and Andres is no innocent maiden so he easily pulls off the top of his red overall, tugging off the t-shirt too. He hangs it over the back of the chair so it would dry a bit, takes a clean-looking rag from one of the shelves, comfortably sits back on the chair, and wipes his skin dry. 

He looks at Andres and even though the man doesn’t speak anymore he can see this in his glossy gaze. He can see what Andres wants to say, can hear his velvety voice in his mind. It is getting a bit hot in there. You should probably help me too, Martin. Or am I not your friend anymore?

"You are my friend, Andres and so much more than that". 

He stands up again, throws the rag somewhere on the floor, and gets as close to Berlin as he can. Andres’ overalls are tight around his body, which had ballooned slightly. A healthy diet, getting rid of myopathy and inflammation due to all the stress, Martin assured himself. 

He carefully circled his hands around Berlin’s waist, tugging him so that his back is not in touch with the sofa and his head is leaning on Martin’s stomach.

"You don’t mind, right?" He mutters, voice close to a whisper, hands already reaching to undo the zipper.

The zipper is the easiest part. Then he has to maneuver the top as carefully as he can to not break more skin. He doesn’t succeed when he reaches the wrists. The elastic band sewn into the sleeves has severely damaged the delicate skin so much that the fluids are oozing out of the wounds non-stop. The cotton fabric of the sofa quickly absorbs it.

He makes quick work of the top after he gets it past wrists. The fabric pools around Andres’ sitting form in red waves and Martin pushes him back so that he no longer leans on his stomach. He leaves the light grey t-shirt on Berlin, not daring to bare his chest. 

However after a few minutes of sitting there unmoving, staring at the curve of Andres collarbones he cheekily lays his hand right over his stomach. He gently rubs up and down and then, feeling bold, starts to slowly move his hand to where the red overalls start again. Berlin’s skin is not warm, cold even, but Martin has never felt hotter and more aroused in his life. All the one night stands, all those faceless men could never even come close to being on the same level as Andres. 

Martin drags his index finger even lower, over the layers of red overalls. He then contemplates his next move. Should he take this further? Andres surely doesn’t mind, he hasn’t said anything to stop Martin, right?

Feeling bold again Martin sneaks his hand inside, playing with the elastic band of Andres’ underpants. He is about to sink his hand even lower, right where the dark curls start but the spell is broken by the alarm on his watch.

He retrieves his hand, turns off the alarm, and squints at the display.

"Fuck, my break is over in five minutes. I will be back tomorrow though. For now, you just rest, maybe draw if you want". He touches up Berlin’s clothing, tries to make him as comfortable as he can, and leaves a water bottle next to his thigh. 

Martin puts on his t-shirt, takes a few swigs from a half-empty open water bottle on the table, throws the noodle cup and a plastic spork in the trash, and runs his fingers through his hair to ruffle his fringe a bit.

In the doorway, he stares at Berlin as he tugs on the top of his overall and zips up as far as it can go. He turns around and stops when he hears the rustling of clothes. 

All the sounds suddenly stop. His ears are ringing and he feels his heartbeat everywhere: from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. 

He turns around but Andres hasn’t moved, his head is still leaning against the wall, both hands on his thighs, but his gaze is not glassy anymore. He seems to be looking straight at Martin. 

"What is the time?" He asks.  
"It is a bit over 3 am. I’m on the night shift today I need to go watch over hostages". Martin shifts on his feet, tugging the sleeves of his overalls as low as they can go.  
"Kill her".  
"Pardon?"  
"It is 3:15 right? Exactly the time when Tokyo would retreat and have her beauty sleep".  
"You want me to murder her while she is resting?"  
"Yes. Is it hard for you to do?"  
"No, of course, not. I will do it".  
"Splendid".

Then all the sounds come back again. It is as if somebody pressed ‘unmute’ on the tv remote. The lights are creaking, strange, glassy sounds; water is still flowing through the piping and ventilation makes soft whirring sounds. Andres’ eye needs help again but Martin is too shocked to care.

He turns around and with newfound purpose strides out of the room. Splendid — he thinks as he goes up exactly one flight of stairs, footsteps echoing on the tile floor, beretta tightly clutched in his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> please come scream at me on twitter @palermoslaleche (you don't have to scream we can just chat I will be super glad!!)


End file.
